There's something about depression that makes an idiot out of me; makes me contradict myself, ponder on things
that are normally of no concern. My discernment dwindles in this state, till I can't distinguish my own lies from reality,
till everything blurs into a haze of inertia-- unchanging, lifeless, lacking in that vague tinge of definition;
a blurry, glossed, dull plane in my head
And I know it isn't real. I know, because I've done it so many times before, that if I could just move my arm, pull off these damned shades, and see that life really isn't that bad....
I need a sense of will to lift the muscle.
She probably knows what's under these sleeves. She asked me once, and I'm sure it's only my austere presence
that keeps her from interrogating me any further. She shouldn't have to worry about me, when I make so little effort to change.
She must feel more disappointment than I could ever know, only being kind to let me wallow in my pathetic gloom
And I know it isn't real. I know, because I've asked her so many times before,
"are you ashamed of me?"
she always says that such has never been true, but I can recall those days when she was ashamed--disgraced--
and maybe it's wrong to hold onto that, but every time I fall into this pit, every time the pit pulls me back in,
it's all I can think about.
I'm so scared that maybe it isn't even a simple pair of glasses in my way, but maybe it's my own eyes.
If it's me, if it's a part of my own body, stuck inside my head and filling the sockets-- what can I do?
But I've seen things in clearer vision, and I've seen the hue beyond the black
so it can't be unbeatable
I can remove this rheum.
I can. I know that. I know the air is just outside my lungs
if only I could take that breath
if I live on
will I ever stop choking
will I ever be free of breathing too much of this life
too much of the pollution
all the sickness I exhale
and inhale
and exhale
and inhale
and exhale onto others
They wear masks, afraid of me
I am afraid of me.
If I live on, will I live in the same insanity, of breathing my own toxins
repelling others
droning in passive despair
only alive when it's killing me
never knowing this thing called happiness
only at my best
am I just okay.
I'd give anything to be okay for one whole day.
Not dissipating through the hours, the minutes
but one single day to breathe
and it not burn.
